


Love's Labour's Lost

by via_ostiense



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Remixed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-24
Updated: 2003-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/via_ostiense/pseuds/via_ostiense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d taken down all the pictures that usually decorated the room—the portrait Oliver had given him in seventh year, the photo of them in Calais, at Fortescue’s in Diagon Alley, all the trips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Labour's Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Veela-inc's 2003 Valentine's Day Challenge. Prompt: "Love sought is good, but given unsought is better." – William Shakespeare. It was remixed by Silvia Kundera into [The Reminiscent Mix](http://barrendelights.slashcity.net/anaimos.html) for [Rescribo](http://barrendelights.slashcity.net/rescribomain.html).

Marcus sat on the couch, tapping his thumbs on his thigh. They did a little dance, crawling from one side of his leg to the other, betraying his nervous to the room, if not much else. He’d taken down all the pictures that usually decorated the room—the portrait Oliver had given him in seventh year, the photo of them in Calais, at Fortescue’s in Diagon Alley, all the trips. Marcus stood up and began pacing. The bookshelf looked empty without the small snapshot of Oliver, asleep in bed with the sheets wrapped around his waist. Hopefully he’d be able to put them all back up, the house seemed wrong without the images of Olly, Olly and Marcus, standing in every corner. They were normally on prominent display, after their break up it’d helped to see the Scottish boy’s face. Merlin, he hadn’t seen his smile in months. Even the  _Quidditch Illustrated_  images frowned when they caught him gazing at them.

A burst of magic, the wizarding equivalent of a knock, alerted Marcus that someone was about to Floo into his living room.  _Oliver_. He was coming, he’d be here in a moment, in the flesh real solid  _Oliver_. Twitching at nonexistent creases in his trousers, Marcus stood and faced his reflection in the mirror.

“Good luck,” the image mouthed, and made shooing motions towards the door. He made a last-ditch attempt to stifle his nervousness and pasted on a tremulous smile before stepping into the living room.

The sight that met his eyes there was no less than what he’d expected, and a great deal more. The former Gryffindor was dressed in khaki trousers and his old Quidditch jumper from Hogwarts; Marcus remembered Oliver telling him that his mum had charmed it to grow with him, since he usually outgrew clothes within a few months. He wondered—and stretched out with a tendril of magic, testing the spells on the clothing. Yes—the spells he’d cast on it, to prevent against wear, to make it exude a sweet minty scent, were still there.  _He left them on_ , Marcus thought,  _even after he left me._

“Hey, Marcus. Thanks for inviting me over tonight; haven’t been out much lately,” Oliver offered him a friendly grin and added, “it was getting a bit boring, staying home every weekend.”

“Oh. Er. Um, it was no problem, no problem at all,” Marcus babbled. The lovely vision before his eyes, real and tangible, unlike his nightly dreams, had the power to disconnect his tongue from his brain. “It’s been a while and I, um, thought it would be, er, nice to, you know, just sort of catch up?”  _And see you again._

Oliver gave him a strange look before replying, “Right. It’s been, what, 7 months?” He shook his head and laughed incredulously, “I can’t believe it’s been that long.” His voice dropped, “Sometimes it feels like forever, sometimes it feels like no time’s passed at all.”

Not quite sure what to make of Oliver’s statement, Marcus thought it better to move away from that tack in the conversation.  _No time’s passed at all? Sometimes I find myself still expecting you to Apparate into the kitchen after work, flushed from practice and bubbling with energy. But most days I sit on the couch, thinking that I haven’t expected you for weeks._  “Well, um, knowing you, you’re probably hungry, so, er, dinner’s ready.” He walked into the kitchen, not waiting for Oliver’s reply. 

  
After the dinner (slightly strained) of salad, chicken (slightly undercooked), and pie (slightly burned), the two men were sipping scotch in the living room. Perhaps it was because Marcus had been drinking more than was wise during dinner, made tense and edgy by proximity to Oliver, perhaps it was because the presence of his former and current love made him feel awkward and off balance. Whatever the cause, Marcus was just inebriated enough to have lost most of his inhibitions, but not enough so that his mental faculties were shut down. Oliver’s handsome face called to him, reminding him of previous nights spent together in the flat. Bittersweet memories of kisses, whispers, and the taste of spice and the scent of mint flooding his senses. The other man was talking about something, arguing about the Montrose Magpies’ recent string of victories, and the words flowed past him in an incomprehensible stream. He wondered if Oliver still tasted the same, if his skin still radiated heat and warmth and a need to know the answer made him lean over and softly kiss Oliver’s neck. Barely a moment passed, during which Marcus realised that yes, Oliver was warm and sweet and lovely still, before he was violently pushed away.

Startled out of his daze, he stared at Oliver, who was wearing an expression both distraught and upset. “Marcus! I—I thought this was just a dinner between friends.”

“I…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what he should say, he’d never been stellar with words and conversations and baring his soul’s desires. Oliver had been the vocal one, telling Marcus how lovely he was, how thoughtful he was, how much he adored him. He’d also been the emotional one, perceptive and able to read Marcus as if he were a Quidditch manual, while Marcus had stumbled with his feelings like a shy twelve-year-old.

Oliver’s ability to interpret Marcus’ downcast gaze and his mumbled words led him to realise what was going on in his former lover’s head. “Oh. You haven’t—you didn’t—you’re not—you’re still in love with me, aren’t you?” His voice was low and soft, as if he were ashamed to be speaking of love and Marcus in the same sentence. It was apparent to him now that the ex-Slytherin was still very much in love with him, while he had buried the little part of his heart that had belonged to Marcus seven months earlier.

Marcus was silent, but Oliver could see the answer to his question in the slumped shoulders and the wet look in his eyes. He sighed and stood; there was little he could do, and he wasn’t up to dealing with Marcus in a maudlin mood. “I’m going now, Marc. It was a nice dinner, thanks for having me over, but I really think it would be best if I left now.” He reached for the pot of Floo powder on the coffee table, but suddenly Marcus had grabbed the neck of his jumper and pulled him back.

“Don’t you  _dare_  walk out on me again, Wood,” Marcus growled. “I still haven’t forgotten about the last time.”

Oliver swallowed. He wished that he could disappear, but he knew that Marcus would only track him down again. Watching Marcus, who had seemed so strong, fall apart was something he hated almost as much as he hated himself for breaking Marc in the first place.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Marcus repeated. “It’s been on my mind for seven bloody months, and I haven’t forgotten you, either—I can’t, not even when I’m sleeping because you star in my dreams.” His voice cracked. “I haven’t seen anyone, Olly.” The other man winced at the familiar nickname, but Marcus kept rambling on, oblivious. “I haven’t seen anyone, I haven’t touched anyone, I haven’t done anyone since you dumped me. It’s like my heart was tied up in you—hell, you had it in your hands and you squished it like I meant nothing to you!  _Why_ , Olly, I still haven’t been able to figure it out— _why_  did you do that to me?”

There were no easy answers. Oliver considered any number of plausible, false excuses that he knew Marcus would accept as truth, and settled on silence. It would hardly be kind to tell him,  _`You were part of my adolescent rebellion, I think. Everyone expected me to settle down with Alicia and find a job after we graduated, and I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to be someone besides Oliver Wood, Straight Quidditch Captain, and when I turned around, searching for a person to help me escape, you conveniently happened to be around.’_ Unwillingly, he lifted his eyes to meet Marcus’ angry, tearful gaze and gave a helpless shrug.

This hardly placated the former Slytherin, and he raged, demanding to know what he’d done wrong, what he’d done to drive Oliver away, how he’d failed. “I thought that I’d done everything I could, Olly. I learned how to cook for you, I got my teeth straightened after you complained about them, I tried to be a nice little goodie like your Gryffindor friends, I  _changed myself to be what you wanted_.” Chest heaving, he fell silent for a moment and then whispered, “I loved you, Olly. I did everything I could – why wasn’t it enough for you?”

 _Because I wanted you to be tough, strong, and abrasive, I didn’t want you to love me,_  Oliver replied in his mind. It was apparent now that everything had been a mistake; he should’ve married Alicia and been happily ensconced in a flat with five children and a pet dog. Pretending to love Marcus—how could he do otherwise, when Marc’s affection was as obvious as a schoolboy’s crush?—had failed, because he didn’t. And so he’d woken up one morning, told Marcus they were over, and Apparated out of the flat, more than half a year ago.

Marcus was openly crying now, tears running down his face and dripping onto his trousers.  _Broken, weak, tamed,_  his mind thought,  _by you._ Oliver was seized with a need to be away from there, away from his failure. He said softly, “Because I didn’t want you to change,”  _because I didn’t want you to love me._  “It was nice seeing you, but I think it’s time to call it a night.” He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around Marcus and cradled him for a moment. Eyes shut, Marcus inhaled the sweet, mint scent of Oliver until a popping sound told him that Olly had Disapparated, leaving his house and his life. Marcus stumbled into his bedroom and collapsed, reaching for the stacks of pictures he’d taken down earlier so that they wouldn’t disturb Olly when he came over. Oliver hadn’t wanted any reminders of their time together; when he’d left the first time, he’d taken only his clothes and his broomstick, telling Marcus to keep everything else. He placed the photo of Oliver asleep in bed on the pillow next to him, so he could see it when he woke up, and fell asleep.

  


 _~ Love sought is good, but given unsought is better – William Shakespeare ~_


End file.
